Текст книги "The Mayan Secrets"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Chapter 12

GUATEMALA

Sam and Remi swam cautiously in the deepening darkness, just going with the current for about a hundred feet to make sure that no one standing above the cenote could see them turn on their flashlights, and they increased their speed to move along the stone corridor of the underground river. The water rose all the way to the ceiling of the cavern, leaving no airspace above the surface. At first, the walls were about twenty feet apart but thirty or forty feet deep. Each time the space between the walls narrowed, Sam and Remi would feel a growing dread. When the space opened up a little, their relief was intense.

They kicked their fins steadily to keep their speed up, and the current helped them along. They held their flashlights ahead of them, but what they saw was always the same – more curving tunnel. When the tunnel narrowed, Sam would wonder whether it was merely a fissure in the rock opened up by one of the frequent earthquakes in the region. If it was, it could narrow at some point from twenty feet down to six inches, and they would be trapped and drown.

Sam kept checking his watch as they swam. He and Remi had made a dive yesterday morning that had lasted about fifteen minutes. Each of their aluminum tanks still held about twenty-five minutes of air. That meant that for the first twelve minutes, if they reached an obstacle, they might still be able to swim back to the cenote and surface. Maybe if they did, they’d find that the men who had been after them had already stormed the enclosure, seen they were gone, and left to search for them. Sam knew this thought was part fantasy and part nightmare: the possibility that betting their lives on this underground river might be a dead end.

And then it was thirteen minutes, and he knew that if they tried to swim back, they probably wouldn’t make it before their air was gone. After five more minutes, they certainly wouldn’t.

When twenty minutes had passed, they could count on only five more minutes of air. Even that might be optimistic. They had been swimming steadily, so they had used air at an accelerated rate. He thought about their chances as rationally as he could. There was no reason to believe that they would reach another opening in the ground above them in the next five minutes. Remi was smaller and lighter and used less air than he did. If she had both tanks, she would have twice as much time to find an escape.

Sam shifted his tank to the side so he could turn off the valve, but Remi saw what he was doing. She grasped his wrist with surprising strength and shook her head violently. Sam realized that she must have been thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same fears, and known that Sam would try to give her his tank.

When Remi had grasped Sam’s wrist, his flashlight had swept the space above them, and something had looked different. Now he looked back and upward. He had gotten used to the sight of the bubbles they exhaled rising to the ceiling of the cavern, sliding into a depression, and staying there as a single, gelatinous bubble. Now his bubbles disappeared. He swam upward, with Remi still holding his wrist.

They broke the surface together and aimed their flashlights upward. They were in a dome, with the limestone ceiling about ten feet above their heads. Sam removed his mouthpiece and cautiously took a shallow breath. “The air is good,” he announced.

Remi took out her mouthpiece. They raised their masks and looked around. “I was afraid it would be carbon monoxide or hydrogen sulfide or something from a volcano,” she said.

“Nope. Just air.”

“It’s sweet, clean air,” she said. “How is it getting in?”

“Let’s turn off the flashlights and see if light is coming in.”

They tried the experiment, but there was no light. They waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they still detected nothing. They switched on their flashlights again. “At least we can swim on the surface for a bit,” said Sam. They closed the valves on their tanks and began to move.

The space remained above them, and they breathed the air and swam steadily along with the current.

Sam paused. “I think I know what this is.”

“You do?” she said.

“Rainwater that flows into cenotes or seeps in through cracks feeds the river. The water level must be very high after a rain – maybe even through the rainy season – and then gets lower as time passes.”

“Sounds right,” she said. “It would explain why the Mayans built those big stone strips like gutters, to catch the rain and direct it to the pool.”

“When there’s no rain for a while, much of the underground river probably gets low, and air flows in above it. When the river rises again, air gets trapped in places like this,” Sam said. “We’ve got to try to stay on the surface as long as we can to save our air.”

“And by the way,” said Remi, “don’t make any more moves like trying to give me your air tank. I’m already aware that chivalry isn’t dead.”

“I was just being rational,” he said. “You use less air than I do, so you could make it last longer and get farther.”

“All that would accomplish is that we’d both die alone. I plan to die in front of an audience and I picked mine years ago. You’re it.”

“Saves you having to send out a lot of invitations,” he said.

“That’s right,” she said. “This is hard enough with you alive. Just stick with me and curb your generosity.”

They swam on along the curving tunnel for an hour until they came to a spot where the wall ahead reached all the way down under the water. They stopped and held on to the wall long enough for an awkward kiss. Then they lowered their masks over their faces and turned on the valves of their tanks. Remi said, “Remember, it’s both of us or neither,” and put her mouthpiece in.

They sank, and found themselves in a long passage that looked exactly like the stretches they had first passed through. As they swam, Remi wished she had looked at her watch before they had submerged. She had timed their arrival at the air pocket at sixteen minutes, but how much time had gone by? And did their tanks actually hold nine more minutes of air? She and Sam had never tested the limits before. Letting their air get this low would have been risky and stupid on any day when they could have simply surfaced and gotten fresh tanks from the dive boat.

There was nothing she could do but swim. As the minutes ticked away, the passage opened into another, wider space. The bottom of the river was oddly uneven, with loose chunks of rock instead of the smooth-worn riverbed they’d seen before. Then she realized she was seeing these things outside the perimeter of their flashlight beams – real light was filtering down from above. They swam upward. As the light grew brighter, Remi laughed and heard herself make a squeaky noise like a dolphin. She saw Sam huff out a big flurry of bubbles in an answering laugh, and they broke the surface smiling.

But Remi’s laugh caught in her throat. There was light in this dome, directly above their heads, coming from a circular hole that opened to the starry sky. But the hole was at the center of the dome, beyond their reach, at least six feet above the surface of the river.

“Now, there’s a problem,” Sam said.

“What can we do?”

“I’m going down to take a look around. Stay here for a minute.” He lowered his mask again and submerged. Remi waited until he surfaced again.

“Well?” she said.

Sam swam over to the side of the stone riverbed. It seemed to rise in the water, then rose partway out of it, so he was only up to his waist. “I’m standing on a pile of rock. At some point, a pretty big chunk of wall came down right here. There’s also a pile in the center, right below where the roof collapsed.”

“Very dramatic,” she said. “Does this mean we’re not going to the great beyond?”

Sam looked up at the hole in the dome. “I think it does, but we’ll have to work pretty hard to get out. Get ready to move some stones.”

They dove to the bottom, where Sam had been standing, and began to move chunks of stone from the pile along the wall to the spot just below the opening. Sam moved the largest chunks he could, rolling them end over end, to add to the pile in the center. Soon he took off his fins and worked in his booties. It was clear that at some point part of the wall had collapsed to make the pile, and stones gradually falling from the ceiling formed the cenote, with even more stones coming down as it enlarged. Sam and Remi both were free diving and they had to stop occasionally to catch their breaths.

When they had moved the whole pile of stone from the place where it had fallen to the place they wanted it, they stopped at the surface. “We’re running out of stones,” said Remi.

“I think we’ve got to bet the rest of our air on finding more and building higher.”

“I’m for risking it,” she said. “This is the only chance we’re likely to get.”

They put on their tanks again, swam in a wider radius around the pile they’d built, and brought back chunks of limestone that must have been left by other collapses. They didn’t bother to pile the rocks high, just brought them and then went back for more, knowing the air in their tanks must be nearly gone. After a few more minutes, Sam surfaced and took off his tank. Within a short time, Remi surfaced too and took off hers.

“All out?” asked Sam.

She nodded.

“All right. Let me arrange what we’ve got as well as I can.” Sam ducked under the water and moved a large stone and added it to the pile. Remi went under and did the same. Each time they submerged, they held their breath and moved one stone before they came up for air. It was a slow and exhausting process, and their rest periods grew longer, but, little by little, the pile rose nearly to the surface. Sam even built their empty tanks into the pile to add height.

Finally, after hours of work, Sam sat down for a moment. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I’ll lift you up. You’ll stand on my shoulders. You should be able to get your hands up on the rim of the cenote.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

Sam bent his knees. Remi took his hands, stepped lightly on his knees, then stepped up to his shoulders. He straightened his legs, and Remi rose. He could feel her clawing and scrabbling with her hands, trying to pull herself upward on the uncertain surface and failing.

“Step on my hands,” he said. He held them, palms upward, just above his shoulders. Remi looked down, placed a foot on one hand and then a foot on the other.

“Try again,” he said, and she pushed down with her arms while Sam pushed up to straighten his elbows. And then her upper body was on the ground above. She clutched at clumps of plants and dragged herself forward onto the surface.

She looked down at Sam. “I’m up, Sam. I’m out.”

“That’s good news, of course,” Sam said. “I look forward to your weekly visits when you come to drop sandwiches down to me.”

“Very funny,” she said. “What can we use as rope?”

“I’ll use my wet suit,” he said. “I’ll cut it into strips while you look for something solid we can tie it to.”

“All right.”

He couldn’t hear her anymore and knew she had moved off a few feet. He took off the top of his wet suit, took the dive knife from his belt, and began to cut. When he reached the sleeves, he cut each into several strips and tied them together, then tied these each to the long corkscrew shape he had cut from the torso. He took off the bottom of the wet suit, cut it into strips, and added it to the corkscrew.

Remi looked down over the rim of the cenote. “Throw me the rope when it’s ready,” she said. “I’ve got a tree up here.”

“Take this first,” he said. He removed the waterproof pack from his dive belt, held it in both hands, and performed something like a basketball jump shot to sail it up through the opening to the surface. He tied his neoprene rope to his belt with its one remaining weight, then called, “Ready?”

“Ready,” she said.

He swung the rope back and forth a couple of times, then swung it up toward Remi.

“Got it.” Then she disappeared again, pulling the rope with her. After thirty seconds, she came back to the edge. He could see she had her dive knife in her hand. “We need some more. This will take a minute.”

Several minutes later, Sam could see Remi’s face, looking down at him again. “It’s tied on. Time to do it.”

Sam climbed the rubber rope upward. Initially, it stretched as it took his weight, so the first two or three feet of climbing got him nowhere, but then the stretched rubber remained taut. He climbed it to the cenote, then used it as a handhold to drag himself up onto the ground. He rolled on his back, looked up at the sky, and then at Remi. His eyes widened. “Nice to see you used your wet suit too.”

“Stop staring, naked boy,” she said. “At least blink once in a while.” She opened the waterproof bag and tossed a pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt on his chest, took out her own clothes, stepped into her shorts and pulled her T-shirt over her head. “Put on some clothes so we can start hunting for civilization.”

He sat up and looked around him. “I think we’re in it.”

She turned, stepped in a little circle, and noticed for the first time the rows and rows of tall, bright green leafy plants that surrounded them and extended in all directions, as far as she could see, under the starlit night.

Sam said, “I think we’re in the middle of the biggest marijuana field in the world.”

Chapter 13

SAN DIEGO

Professor David Caine sat in an archive room in the university library, trying to decipher the Mayan glyphs on the third page of the codex. He had seen nearly all of the glyphs in the first two columns before. They were among the eight hundred sixty-one that had appeared in other codices or as carved inscriptions at Mayan archaeological sites and translated in the context of those inscriptions. He had found two glyphs on the first page that he believed had not been found before. In old languages and writing systems, there were always a few words susceptible to competing interpretations. Even in the surviving texts of Old English, there were a few words appearing only once, and scholars had been arguing about them for centuries.

Caine leaned close to the lighted magnifier on the stand above the painted bark page of the codex. He had photographed all the pages, but when there was doubt about a glyph, it was best to look as closely as possible at the original, examining each brushstroke. The two glyphs could be borrowings from another Mayan language, or possibly be the unique names of historical figures or even two names for one man. They could even be variants of terms he knew but had failed to recognize.

There was a loud rap on the door that startled him and destroyed his concentration. He was tempted to shout “Go away,” but he reminded himself that he was a guest in this building. He stood up, went to the door, and opened it.

In the doorway stood Albert Strohm, the vice chancellor for Academic Affairs, and behind him were several men in suits. Strohm was a dynamic, effective executive – the academic vice chancellor was the one who actually ran the campus, while the chancellor spent most of his time on public relations and fund-raising – but Strohm looked today like a man who had been thoroughly defeated.

Caine said, “Hello, Albert,” as kindly as he could. “Come on in. I was just—”

“Thank you, Professor Caine,” Strohm said, giving Caine a stare that held some message – a warning? Caine was sure it had something to do with the men outside. Strohm said, “Let me introduce these gentlemen. This is Alfredo Montez, the Minister of Culture for the Republic of Mexico; Mr. Juárez, his assistant; Steven Vanderman, Special Agent, FBI; and Milton Welles, U.S. Customs.” As he introduced the agents, they held up their federal identification badges.

“Please come in,” said Caine. He was thinking rapidly. Albert Strohm’s formality had been a warning to him to shut up before he said something incriminating. Then he amended it – or, if not incriminating, then something that might weaken the university’s position in a legal matter. He had heard of Alfredo Montez, so he held out his hand. “Señor Montez, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve read your monographs on the Olmec and used them, particularly the ones on blue jadeite, in my own work.”

“Thank you,” said Montez. He was a tall, erect man, with his dark hair combed straight back. He wore an expensive gray suit and highly shined shoes, which made Caine feel a bit grubby in his old sport coat and khaki pants. He noticed that Montez didn’t smile.

Montez said, “We came straight from Mexico City as soon as the Chiapas officials brought this situation to our attention.” He saw that the codex was open on the table where Caine had been working. “That is the Mayan codex, correct?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Found in a shrine on Volcán Tacaná?”

“Yes,” said Caine. “It was hidden in a classic period pot. The finders judged it would be safest to remove what they could from the earthquake zone, and then there were attempts to steal the pot, so they brought it here temporarily. Only when we unsealed the pot did we find the codex. If you have time, I’d love to talk with you about the shrine and the codex itself.”

Minister Montez stepped back and turned toward the FBI and customs agents to answer. “No, I’m afraid I’ll have to defer that conversation. For the moment, I’ve heard enough.”

It was as though the legal authorities had been waiting for Caine to say the wrong thing. The FBI man, the customs man, and the assistant stepped to the table. In an instant, Caine knew. As soon as he had admitted the codex had been found in Mexico, anything else he might say became irrelevant. But he had to try to keep them from confiscating it.

“Wait, gentlemen, please. This codex was found, hidden in a classic period jar, with the body of a caretaker, who must have brought it to the shrine to hide. The shrine had been buried by lava in an eruption, then uncovered by last month’s earthquakes. There was an emergency, a national disaster. The finders were there on a humanitarian mission, not searching for artifacts. They only acted to preserve what they’d found.”

Special Agent Vanderman said, “You must be aware that the law and international agreements required them to report the find to the host government and not take it out of the country.”

“Yes, I’m aware. But these people protected the jar and the codex from thieves in Mexico. This isn’t a theoretical argument. The codex would have been on the black market that very day.”

“We’re here now, and these finders are relieved of the responsibility to protect it further,” said Montez. “And so are you.”

Caine was frantic. “Surely you’re not going to confiscate the codex now. I’ve barely had time to examine it.”

“Have you photographed it?” asked Welles, the customs agent.

“That was one of the first things I did,” said Caine. “It was a precaution, to preserve the information.”

“We’ll need those photographs too,” said Welles. “And all copies. Are they in your briefcase?”

“Well, yes,” Caine said. “But why?”

“They’re evidence in a possible federal prosecution. They prove you were treating the codex as your own and that you were taking your time about reporting it to authorities here or in its country of origin.”

“But that’s absurd,” said Caine. “I’ve always reported everything I’ve found in Mexico or anywhere else. There’s never been this kind of haste in any case I know of. The codex hasn’t been here a month.”

Vanderman, the FBI agent, said, “Do you want to hand everything over voluntarily or should we begin to search for it?”

Caine lifted his briefcase to the table and produced a thick, nine-by-twelve-inch envelope full of photographs. He turned to Vice Chancellor Strohm, who looked sick. “Albert—”

“I’m sorry, Professor Caine. The university’s legal staff says the law is clear. The codex belongs to the country where it was found. We have no choice but to comply with the official request for immediate repatriation.”

Agent Vanderman glanced at the photographs in the envelope, but then took Caine’s briefcase too. He said, “We’ll need your laptop too.” He gestured toward the open computer near the codex.

“Why?” asked Caine. “You can’t say that belongs to the Mexican government.”

Vanderman spoke quietly. “It will be returned to you as soon as our technicians have looked through the hard drive.” He stared at Caine for a moment, his eyes taking on the flat, emotionless expression that cops use on suspects. “Just some friendly advice. If there’s anything on the drive about selling, hiding, or transporting the Mayan codex, then you’ll need to hire a good lawyer. I’m sure Vice Chancellor Strohm will tell you that the university’s attorneys can’t defend you in a criminal trial.”

Strohm didn’t meet Caine’s gaze.

Caine stood, helplessly watching them pack up the codex, his notes, his photographs, and his computer. He turned to the two Mexican officials. “Minister Montez, Señor Juárez,” he said. “Please believe me, this was never a scheme to do anything unethical. The people who found the codex risked their lives to protect it during a time of catastrophe. They alerted the mayor of the nearest village. They called me in and I immediately began consulting with scholars all over the world, including Mexico.”

Montez said, “You should know that neither I nor the Mexican government can countenance what you’ve done here. The steps you and your friends took seem to have left out the only legitimate authority, and the legal owner of the artifacts. Saying that the only way to protect the codex was taking it to the United States is presumptuous and paternalistic.” He stepped past Caine and the others, with his assistant, Señor Juárez, following.

After that, the men from the FBI and customs seemed uncomfortable. They took only a minute to finish packing up and walk off, leaving only Strohm and Caine in the room.

“I’m sorry, David,” said Strohm. “The university had no choice but to cooperate in a situation like this. Of course we’ll do everything possible to vouch for you and support you. We’ll also vouch for the probity of your conduct. But, you know, you might want to consider what Agent Vanderman said.”

“You mean find a criminal lawyer?”

The vice chancellor shrugged. “It’s a lot easier to get a court to decide in your favor on the first try than to get the next court to reverse the first’s decision.”

* * *

Outside the building, the officials drove off in a plain coal black Lincoln Town Car. They reached the San Diego Freeway and turned south in the direction of downtown San Diego, but then stayed on the freeway, took the Balboa Park exit, and drove into the vast parking lots of the San Diego Zoo. They went to an area of the largest lot that was far from the pedestrian entrance and where a solitary second black car waited. They pulled up beside it, and both drivers lowered their backseat windows.

From the backseat of the waiting car came a woman’s voice with an educated British accent. “I assume it all went swimmingly?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Special Agent Vanderman. He got out of his car, carrying a large briefcase, got into the backseat of the other car, and sat beside Sarah Allersby. He placed the case on the seat between them, opened it, and showed her the codex, wrapped in clear plastic.

“Did you get everything? All of his photographs, his notes, and so on?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “The administrators fell all over themselves to cooperate, and so when we all trooped in, Caine looked like he’d been poleaxed. He gave us everything without much of an argument. I guess he assumed his bosses had already verified who we were.”

“They may have,” said Sarah. “The names on your identification cards were the names of real officials.” She looked more closely at the briefcase. “Is this everything?”

“No.” He got out and reached into the backseat of the other car, then handed her a computer. “Here’s his laptop. That’s everything.”

“Then it’s time for you four to get moving. Here are your itineraries.” She handed him four printed airline itineraries. “Destroy your fake identification before you reach the airport. You’ll each find a rather pleasing bonus in your special bank accounts tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to ask how much?”

“No, ma’am. You said we’d be pleased. I have no reason to doubt that, and, if I’m wrong, haggling won’t help.”

She smiled, displaying perfectly straight, professionally whitened teeth. “You’re very wise. Stick with our company and you’ll also be rich.”

“I intend to,” he said. He turned and got into the backseat of the other car and nodded to the driver. The car began to move immediately.

Sarah Allersby watched the other black car drive off, then latched the briefcase and set it on the floor. She couldn’t keep from smiling as her own car moved off more slowly. She wanted to laugh aloud, to get on the phone and tell a few friends how clever she had been. She had just acquired a Mayan codex, an irreplaceable and priceless artifact, for about the cost of a middle-of-the-lot American car. If she included the price of the false identification cards and badges, the plane tickets, and the bonuses, it was, at most, the cost of two cars.

Maybe when she got back to Guatemala City tonight she would get on the secure scrambled phone line to London. Her father would be amused. He didn’t much care about the art or cultures of non-European people – he referred to them as “our brown brothers,” as though he were a colonist out of Kipling – but a good deal on any commodity was what he lived for.